At a little after 5AM a year ago today, I was awakened by the absence of sound that meant my wife had stopped breathing. I had been holding her hand loosely when I was in the room with her, the recliner positioned by her hospital bed. The last time she had been conscious and communicative was a day and a half before.
As soon as she was admitted, I called my parents and told them that based on what we'd heard from her doctors she was unlikely to last very long. Wren's sister was already in town with her son, but her husband and daughter weren't, so they came up immediately as well.
On July 31st, she had posted on Facebook:
Chemo tomorrow. Please hold me in your thoughts and prayers. This is the big one, the last chance. One more next week, scans in 6 weeks (if I get there). You have all been great supporting me. I always felt loved.
You see, she couldn't stop fighting.
On August 5th she was transported by ambulance and admitted to the hospital because her blood O2 saturation was dropping and she was panting painfully to breathe even with the max of 5L of O2 that her Oxygen concentrator could put out at the house. She was able to articulate well enough in between panted breaths to tell the doctors that she wanted to be DNI/DNR (Do Not Intubate/Do Not Resuscitate). This was the first time in her many hospital admissions that she had told them that she didn't want to be tubed or rescuscitated.
My family arrived. Her sister's family arrived. Our family arrived, because her struggle is what knit us together, and continues to bring us closer.
She was conscious and knew they were there when the rest of the family arrived, but breathing painfully. They kept upping her O2 until she was on the most they could put out. They gave her steadily more painkillers to allow her to take deeper breaths. Lasix to reduce fluid in her lungs. She slept a lot, drifting in and out. She was no longer panicky and no longer sounded as pained as she had. We were told that she wouldn't recover, in the gentlest terms and with the greatest sorrow, but firmly.
She was just barely there on the evening of the 6th and I spent some time talking to her.
We all cried a lot on the 7th.
At 5:18AM on the 8th, I woke up to that absence of sound and cried some more. I called Danielle and then my parents and then I waited just a bit and called the nurse.
We all said our goodbyes to her there in the hospital.
Later that afternoon the family all had a meal together.
The following day, we met in the afternoon and held a brief memorial by the creek in the park. We all tried to tell a story or share a moment that reminded us most of the happy times we had with her. Then we went home. Family to their homes and I to ours, mine.
Dear gallant, brave, beautiful, human Corinne Lauren Kennedy Hiland, we love you and miss you. I am so glad of the joyful moments we all stole together. You deserved so many more. Thank you for being you and making us better by doing so.
We won't ever forget you.
No comments:
Post a Comment